


Parasite

by thehonestman (orphan_account)



Category: K-pop, Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Kleptomania, M/M, Mild Gore, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thehonestman
Summary: Following Minho anywhere is like following the White Rabbit, Jisung thinks.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	Parasite

The automated bell chimes to signal someone’s entrance into the store. It’s fairly busy--quite a few people are lingering around, but the store is spacious enough for the clerks to keep an eye on everyone from behind the counter. At the front entrance, Jisung creeps inside, head down low and consumed by an oversized navy blue hoodie tucked into some black jeans. He doesn’t look up once, not even when he feels eyes on him. Instead, he scurries over to a standing display of badge clip necklaces.

From the cash register, Minho watches him with a focused indifference. To his right, Chan watches with a loose rage. He gives Minho a critical look, and Minho cowers under it.

“Seriously?” he says, and Minho shrugs, goes back to tending to a customer who's checking out but never takes his eyes off of Jisung. He’s now moved on to a section of tennis bracelets, of which Minho is not worried. It’s not his scene.

Chan finishes checking out one last customer at the register before he turns to Minho. “I’m gonna go on the floor for a bit.” As he side-steps him, he mumbles under his breath, “a front row seat to this shit show.”

Minho frowns at the comment, but continues watching dejectedly as Chan walks up behind Jisung but doesn’t talk to him or get too close. He re-organizes the displays that have been disturbed throughout the day while remaining watchful. As Chan moves, Jisung continues to creep around until he arrives at a display of small pendant necklaces near the far corner of the store. Minho sighs deeply when Jisung starts to run his fingers over the necklaces laying side-by-side in their cushioned display.

In an instant, Jisung picks up a necklace and pulls his hand into his sleeve. Minho sees, but Chan doesn’t notice what has happened until he hears the metallic clink of the necklace colliding against itself inside Jisung’s hoodie. At that sound, he looks over, then points a finger at Minho, quirking a brow as if to say _get that_.

And Minho does. He does the math, the necklace is forty nine dollars. It appears that Jisung is being nice today, but it becomes clear that he’s not quite done. Shortly thereafter, Jisung nearly knocks into another customer as he makes his way over to a display of rings in the center of the room. Minho raises his brows, interested in his choice and how bold he is. He looks over to Chan, but Chan doesn’t say anything, just watches again as Jisung sticks two rings onto his small fingers and tucks his hands casually into his pockets to keep them hidden. Minho watches him linger around for a bit.

And then much more silently than he had arrived, Jisung leaves without ever having spared a glance at anyone else. Minho follows him with his eyes through the windows as he heads away from the storefront and down a cobblestone path toward the plaza.

“Two rings,” Chan says as he returns. Minho keeps his eyes outside.

“I know.”

“Get out of here early.” Minho looks over to gauge Chan’s attitude, but he keeps his eyes down on the security tags he’s replacing and doesn’t give Minho any leeway. In silence, Minho rings up the price of the necklace and the two rings and pays for them with his own credit card, impotent to do anything else.

“I’m heading out,” he says under his breath as he collects his things. Chan still doesn’t look up. Minho thinks he’s not going to say anything at all, and he’s prepared to leave being completely ignored and blamed until Chan speaks up one more time, still without eye contact.

“He can’t keep coming back here,” he says, with a heavy head shake. “Fucking freeloader. I’m telling you, the next time this gets covered up . . .” he doesn’t finish his thought as he turns swiftly and heads into the back room. Minho doesn’t stick around to hear the rest, just leaves slowly and calmly, hiding his twitching eye from the remaining customers in his way.

Minho calls out when he sees Jisung sitting on a bench outside the shopping center. Jisung turns to look at him, reaches up to brush his blonde hair out his eyes and behind his ear. His other hand is occupied by a lit cigarette, and Minho notices that the rings are off his fingers. He looks small, in that hoodie, and even smaller when he gives Minho a sheepish, crooked smile. Minho’s heart melts a bit at that smile, and he offers one of his own in return. 

“Hi.” Without speaking, Minho reaches a hand out to Jisung and makes a grabbing motion. And without speaking, Jisung hands over the cigarette. Minho takes a few drags, standing tall and looking out at the busy street ahead of them as he does so.

“You know,” he starts, and Jisung turns his eyes up at him. “You gotta stop coming into the store. Chan doesn’t like it when you take things like that.”

“So I can come in as long as I don’t steal things?” 

“I don’t think you’re capable of that.” Minho looks down at him and laughs before he puts the cigarette out and sits down on the bench next to Jisung. It’s hot and bright outside, and Minho is sweating already. Jisung must be sweating too, he figures, especially in that hoodie. Jisung’s thigh flinches when Minho drops a hand down onto it. “Seriously though,” he continues, “I think you could get treatment. Lots of kleptos go to therapy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I think you need therapy.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Minho falters and stills momentarily, turning slowly to look over to Jisung and ask flatly, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

Jisung looks down at Minho’s hand on his thigh, at his sleeves buttoned tightly down to the wrist. 

“No,” he whispers, though it’s not clear to what he’s responding. He shuffles closer to Minho, resting his head down on his shoulder. After a brief tension Minho finally relaxes, drops a kiss down onto Jisung’s head and steadies his breathing. They sit like that for a while, until Jisung starts shifting uncomfortably. 

“It’s hot,” he says, and sits up straight. “Can we go home?”

And they walk hand-in-hand to the car.

The drive always feels longer when they talk. Some days, this is a blessing, as they rattle off stories about their separate days, usually of annoying customers or run-ins with security. But other days . . .

“Talked to Mom today,” Jisung starts, a bit fearfully. He tucks his hands under his thighs in the passenger seat. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“She says I need to get a job.” Jisung watches as Minho’s hands grip the steering wheel that much tighter. He hums, but says nothing. “I don’t know why she has to be so nasty about it. She told me I’m like a parasite. Just surviving off of you.''

“I don’t really see it that way.” Jisung is about to cut in and agree in relief, but Minho starts talking again. “But I guess . . .” he tosses his head to the side in a dramatized show of contemplation. “I guess that’s what she _would_ want, right?” Jisung stays very quiet and still. “She would want you to get a job so that you can get away from me, right? I guess that's what you want, too, then.”

“No, that’s not true,” Jisung rushes. “I want to spend as much time with you as possible. Why do you think I come to the store so much?” He nudges Minho, trying to make a joke, but Minho’s not having it. 

“No I get it,” Minho just says. “It’s fine.” It’s clearly not, but Jisung never knows what to do, in this situation.

Eventually they near the house, and Minho speaks up one more time:

“I need you to help me out, tonight, by the way.” Jisung pulls his eyes off of the passenger side window, and glues them to the side of Minho’s face. Minho smiles briefly at him, a sharp, cutting smile, and Jisung crumbles.

“Okay,” he says, but thinks better of it. “But I don’t think I can do it myself.” Minho’s smile drops a bit at this, but only so he can reach down and unbutton and roll up his sleeves to the elbow. Jisung feels, quite suddenly, very ill. He looks pointedly away from the steering wheel and opts to look out the window, clutching his hands tightly to his chest as he does.

Jisung’s stomach finally settles when they sit down to eat. Over dinner, he laughs and counts carefully, very carefully, how many drinks Minho pours for himself. Three glasses of wine in, the two of them have found themselves in a slow, labored haze of love.

“I feel bad about telling you not to get a job, earlier.” Jisung clears his throat, and a short awkward silence falls over them, saved only by the music playing low in the background. Minho reaches a hand across the table, and Jisung takes it in his own. “I just didn’t want you to want to leave.”

Jisung smiles a sorrowful smile at Minho, enjoying this but keeping in mind that Minho doesn’t hold alcohol well. This weepy, loving version of Minho is a glowing portrait, a caricature of what Jisung knows. He rubs his knuckles across Minho’s as Minho pours himself another glass of wine.

“I don’t want that.”

Minho’s head falls down to the side, and he melts into the table, leaning heavily over it, one hand still clutching Jisung’s. He smiles a slow smile at him, his cheeks red and hair ruffled.

“I just love that you listen to me.” Jisung sips his own wine, amused. “You’re just obedient. You do everything I ask you to do.”

He picks his head up suddenly, and before Jisung can register what he’s said, he silently invites Jisung up to his feet.

“Speaking of,” he says. He reaches a hand out, smirking devilishly down at him. “You said you could help me out, right?” Jisung stands when Minho tugs on his hand, and in an instant Minho is holding him close in a tight embrace, kissing his neck gently. “Right?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Jisung whispers weakly, falling into him. As he follows Minho up the stairs it feels like he’s being led into a secret lair as opposed to their own bedroom. Following Minho anywhere is like following the White Rabbit, Jisung thinks.

He’s thrown on the bed and pulling himself into a sitting position before he can think. Minho stands between his legs, grabs his face hard and kisses him even harder. Jisung winces as he pulls away, feels his stomach turning as Minho takes off his shirt.

At the very least, it’s less disturbing in context. The car ride had been one thing, but Minho being exposed in _this_ setting at least makes some sort of sense. As he removes his shirt to reveal his arms, Jisung recalls, as he does every time, the first time Minho had told him about it, about why he did it, about how he _just likes to look at them_. 

All up and down, Minho’s arms are covered in scars, his torso in smaller nicks and burns. What was, when Jisung had first met him, mainly thin white lines, long-healed scars is now rough and red patches of skin, only semi-healed but never fully allowed the proper healing process before they’re opened again. They don't go as deep as they used to--Jisung had taken the razors and blades and left Minho to deal with keys and eyebrow shapers or whatever else he could find. _I just like looking at them_ , Minho had explained. _I just like the thought of having them_.

Minho leans back in to kiss him, and Jisung places his hands on Minho’s clear chest. As they kiss, Minho starts to scratch at his own arms, increasing in intensity until beads of blood start to peek through the scars, bubbling at the surface of the skin. Jisung kisses him harder, grips his skin tighter, and Minho keeps scratching, reaching up to smear some of the blood onto Jisung’s chin along the way. He steps back momentarily and Jisung smiles up at him.

His arms are stained red as if he’s dipped them in jelly, but the heavy scent of blood in the air makes it clear that it’s not. The room is musty and unkept, and today, they don’t bother putting towels down.

Jisung is still a bit drunk, but when Minho finally takes his pants off, he knows what he must do. There’s one scar that Minho particularly likes: a thick one at the inner joint of his left elbow that’s never fully healed and reopens easily and messily when agitated. Jisung scratches at it, picking off the scab and pressing his nail in until his finger sinks in just enough to rip open the wound again. It’s only a few millimeters deep but it’s over an inch long.

As he does so, they switch positions, Minho sitting on the edge of the bed with Jisung on top of him, straddling his left leg and digging a steady thumb into the wound with one hand and holding Minho’s jaw in the other as they kiss, Minho masturbating furiously with one hand and holding Jisung steady with the other.

Jisung hates the feeling, holds himself back from gagging or vomiting, but keeps his brows furrowed and keeps going, without looking. The inside of Minho’s skin feels gross but not foreign, slimy and slippery and uneven. His fingers are all covered as the wound continues to spread and the wet sound of fingering the wound mirrors that of Minho getting himself off. The man under him finally finishes with a guttural groan, tosses Jisung off of him and admires the wound before pulling away to grab gauze from the nightstand and wrap it around his arm like a tourniquet. He starts bleeding through immediately.

“Okay?” Jisung asks, panting a bit but not wiping the blood from his hands or face. Minho likes him better that way.

“Yes,” Minho smiles, closing in on him once again. He places his hands on Jisung’s shoulders. “Now, you.”

“No,” Jisung insists, going to push him away. Minho watches his own reflection in the whites of Jisung’s wide, panicked eyes. “You said I didn’t have to.”

It’s not necessarily true, Minho hadn’t said yes or no either way. And Minho knows this; he smiles again at Jisung, kisses him gently and reaches down to grab his bloody hand.

“Just try, for me, okay?” Minho’s cat eyes are mirthful and bright. He tilts his head, flicks his tongue, and Jisung just can’t say _no_.

He caves--he always caves--and helps Minho pull his hoodie off. The necklace, still trapped inside his hoodie, falls out onto his lap, and Minho looks pointedly at it but ultimately ignores it. Instead, he lays Jisung flat down on his back, placing his hands across the planes of his chest and admiring the half-healed scars there, focusing particularly on the large abrasion he had made on him from a callus scraper just a few days ago. It’s shallow and flat, and the scab is rough and still partially raw. He touches it gently, lovingly.

“I wish you’d let me use the blades,” he sighs. Jisung holds his breath.

“Yeah.”

Minho presses down into the wound. Jisung’s skin sears; he cries out through gritted teeth, his whole body tensing as he clutches Minho’s hand to release the pressure. Minho looks down at where blood has bubbled to the surface of the wound, but doesn’t touch again. He frowns down.

“You told me you’d try.”

“I did, hyung.” Minho’s eye twitches at the whining tone. “I can’t do it, it hurts too bad.” He goes to sit up, “I’ll help you again.”

“No.” Minho pushes him back down by the chest, rears up and straddles him on the bed. He presses his right hand to the wound in his left elbow, collects some of the blood from his arm and sticks those fingers into Jisung’s mouth. He leans over him as he talks. “You know, maybe your mother is right, for once.”

After a pause, and an effort to talk around the fingers, Jisung asks, “what?”

“You really are just a fucking parasite. You’re a leech. You steal shit and live off of society at its expense, and you suck the life out of me just so that you can survive.'' 

“Hyung--” Minho pushes down harder onto Jisung’s body, throwing a mocking smirk at him trying to speak. He removes his fingers, lays a flat arm across Jisung’s neck. “You can do it,” Jisung says. “I love you, you can do it.” He tries one more time to sit up, but Minho still has him by the neck. Gently, though, because it’s more of a reminder than a threat.

“I let you live here even though you’re a fucking klepto, I give you everything you need, and you can’t do this one thing for me?” 

“Okay, okay, I told you. We can try again, just show me. Just--” But suddenly Minho pulls back, takes his hands away and sits back on Jisung’s thighs. He stutters, shakes his head, places his hands out in front of him in some form of surrender.

“No, that’s okay,” he says, as if coming out of a trance. Jisung watches his eyes fade back to normal. “No, I’m sorry, I know you said you didn’t want to. I know you don’t like it.”

Slowly and carefully, Jisung sits up, supporting Minho’s back and keeping him close to him. He reaches up, cards his unbloodied fingers through Minho’s hair as if trying to salvage any cleanliness they have. But there’s no use now, he realizes. Minho’s blood has already mixed with his own; and if that’s not the ultimate life sentence Jisung doesn’t know what is. “I must have just gotten carried away.” Minho sniffles, but he’s not crying.

“It’s okay,” Jisung whispers. He keeps him close for a while, and avoids looking at Minho’s arms. He’s briefly proud of how he’s been able to neutralize the situation, and even more briefly aware of how often he must do so. After this, Minho stands up from his lap and goes over to the nightstand, digging around in a drawer that Jisung knows contains his cigarettes. Jisung watches him, and the scars don’t quite look right anymore. Standing there, Jisung realizes that he looks quite pathetic, actually. Shirtless, bloody and scarred arms with some loose gauze hanging off, in just his underwear and those skinny, skinny legs. He wonders how he’s gotten here, and how easy it would be to not be here.

He’s thought about it, of course he has. He’s mapped it all out: _out the bedroom door in the middle of the night, Minho leaves it unlocked. Down the stairs and through the back window, there’s no security alarm. Call the neighbors, they already know, and tell them not to speak. They’ll give him money for a ticket and take the train down to the farming district, somewhere Minho will never go. Get a job. Restart. Leave the country. Wire the neighbors some money._ But that would never work, he reckons. Minho sleeps closest to the bedroom door. 

He’s broken out of his thoughts when Minho stops rummaging around the drawer and turns to him with a soft smile.

“Hey,” he says. Jisung blinks. “Did you steal my lighter?” Momentarily, Jisung’s brain short-circuits, recognizing something behind Minho’s smile. He rushes to pull the lighter out of his pocket and offers it out. It’s covered in blood when he hands it over, but Minho doesn’t mind. He smiles sweetly yet again. 

He turns away to head out the door, but stops short momentarily. He comes closer to Jisung, leans in close as if to kiss him. “By the way,” he starts. Jisung feels his breath on his face, and wonders when the music from downstairs stopped playing. “You know a parasite can’t live without its host, right?” 

Jisung swallows. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Minho nods, tipping his head down and dropping a barely-there kiss onto his lips before pulling away for good. “I just thought you should remember that.” 

Jisung’s eyes are closed before his head hits the pillow. As he drifts off he registers only the smell of stale blood as it dries on his face and the relief at having neutralized enough to survive his host’s games yet again, at least for the night.


End file.
